


A Song for Snowbirds

by wormsoffthestring



Series: History Will Call Us Conquerors [1]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, There's a Dragon!, but not grimdark, if i wanted to feel bad about myself i would go on twitter not ao3, it's just the techno backstory no one asked for, tommyinnit has a very very minor role, tubbo is implied but he doesn't technically show up i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 04:09:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28824984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wormsoffthestring/pseuds/wormsoffthestring
Summary: Technoblade wasn't always like this.Before he was a king and traitor and a liar and god, he was the commander of storms and and the ruler of empire that spanned most of the known world.And before that, he was a boy.
Relationships: Technoblade & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Technoblade & Wilbur Soot, technoblade & voiceoverpete
Series: History Will Call Us Conquerors [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2148435
Comments: 8
Kudos: 72





	1. The Rise

**Author's Note:**

> "The truth is this: My love for you is the only empire I will ever build. When it falls, as all empires do, my career in empire building will be over." -this is the nonsense of love, by mindy nettifee
> 
> the song for this fic is Majesty, by Apasge & Wasiu

Philza knew the boy was special from their first meeting. Something hungry waited inside him, with eyes like ice and a temper like frostbite.

He set his fork down, finishing off the watered-down ale the tavern claimed was ‘world-famous’. This far south, it was a common claim, a cheap trick to draw more people through the door as if the warmth wasn’t enough of an incentive. 

He tried his best not to look up at the kid who’d been watching him with furrowed brows for the majority of his meal. 

Phil tossed down a silver piece, two bronze ones clattering out of his coat pocket after it, pushing back his chair to stand. Gods knew he didn’t deserve it as much as whoever would collect the extras. 

Making his way through the crowded space, he savored the warm, boisterous mood that seemed omnipresent in the handful of taverns scattered across this old town full of lean-toos and houses without rooves. 

Phil hesitated before the door, summoning his courage to leave the haven of heat in the outside conditions, before pushing forwards. 

He didn’t even spare a glance at the huddled children amassed outside the tavern’s main door, desperately pressing themselves against the building’s ramshackle walls in hopes of absorbing scraps of warmth. 

In response, Philza clutched his coats tighter around his person, as if it would help anybody but himself. That was all he could afford to care for these days: himself. 

Well, that wasn’t expressly true, but it also wasn’t as if he was a saint. No one was, anymore. Philza had nothing to offer these kids that they hadn’t already seen in the pitying glances of other patrons and the murky glasses offered up with the remnants of almost-emptied ale. 

He quickened his pace. With the moon high in the sky, illuminating the small flurries that were always, always falling, Phil could convince himself the atmosphere seemed almost angelic. 

The shadows that danced across the walls of the surrounding buildings, jumping from wood to ratty cloth to crate and back to wood. They formed peculiar shapes, children and wolves, ice daggers and a misshapen castle. 

Phil made it to the end of the street before the owner of the tavern came striding out after him, shaking her hand at him. 

“You think I don’t know we’re all on hard times?” She demanded, expression furious. 

Phil raised his eyebrows, putting his palms up. “Hey- Hey, I don’t know what happened, but-”

“The rules are simple; You eat at our place, you soak up our warmth, you pay. That’s all there is to it.” She ranted, gesturing backwards wildly. “We can’t afford to keep the fire going if every schmuck that comes in dines and ditches. This isn’t a charity.” 

“Look, I understand. I’m in here every fortnight. I get it.” Phil placated, taking a cautious step forwards. “I put money down on the table before I left.”

She brought a hand to rest on her hip. “Well, there isn’t money there now!”

“Someone must have taken it on the way by.” He offered, scrounging for an explanation.

She wasn’t content with that answer, though. “There’s no money there now, and you’ve already eaten our food.”

Realizing this was going nowhere, Phil reached a hand into his pocket once again, fingers thumbing through the cold metal to pull out an additional silver piece. “Here, just take it.”

More warily than he thought possible, the woman took the coin, looking over it in the dim light of the moon. “Thank you.” She said uncertainly, as if this wasn’t the outcome she was expecting or she was awaiting an ambush. 

He saluted her halfheartedly, watching her backtrack down the unevenly paved cobblestone road. The snow collecting on top of them made them unruly and often treacherous. 

As soon as she was gone, Philza whirled, pinning the shadow that had been trailing him for the last block to the wood exterior of the hut opposite him. 

The child wore nothing but a white overshirt that appeared to be three sizes too big for him and woolen pants that pooled around his ankles. The moonlight shone brightly on his stark pink hair that looked far too vibrant to be natural. 

“Phoenix.” The kid grinned viciously, sounding suspiciously like a threat. 

Phil reflexively shuddered, gaze snapping back to the kid he held aloft by nothing more than the boy’s shirt collar. He kept his wings hidden all the time, and layered aggressively when he traveled into the town’s center. “How did you know?” He demanded.

There was no point in denying it; The kid’s eyes were unnatural, scanning Philza from head to toe, and settling on wings that he knew were tucked tightly to his person. “You weren’t hidin’ it very well.” 

Phil pushed him against the wall harder, wincing at the wood cracking noises that emanated from doing so. “I asked you a question to get an answer.” 

The boy didn’t even flinch. “You didn’t immediately leave the tavern. You’re wearin’ three coats, if not more. You check behind you every three seconds.”

“That’s not enough to draw the conclusion that I’m a phoenix.” Phil pushed. He suspected he already knew the answer though. 

The boy didn’t shiver, didn’t hide from his words, only blinked impassively. “You wouldn’t believe me even if I did tell you.”

The kid had a peculiar accent, all sharp edges and hardened consonants. Philza had never heard anything like it in any of his travels. “Where are your parents, kid?” He also had a sneaking suspicion about the answer to that question, too. 

The boy was always partial to surprises, though. 

“I have none.” 

“Then what’s your name?” Philza sighed through his nose, breath coming out in clouds of white. 

“Technoblade.” 

Short answers, information he couldn’t bait his way out of while Phil was holding him aloft. 

Philza chose not to comment on the odd name or the fact that the boy refused to acknowledge his parentage. He’d met his fair share of emancipated kids on these streets. “I’m Phil.” 

“I didn’t ask.”

Philza didn’t deign to respond to that. 

“Aren’t you cold, Technoblade?” He didn’t particularly want to give up one of his coats, but he knew the kid probably needed it more than he did. Just this once, Phil could afford to take care of someone else. 

But Technoblade grinned once again, this time bearing teeth. Little canines sharp enough to be unnatural peeked through. He cocked his head to the side. “The winter doesn’t command me. I command it.”

Philza also chose to ignore that answer. He released the kid’s collar, letting the boy drop to the ground. 

Something kept his gaze pinned on Technoblade, though. 

The otherness that inhabited him, shadowing the planes of his face and hinting at a monster that prowled beneath the surface of his skin. Phil had only seen an ice dragon once, and it looked all too similar to the boy in front of him. A predator, confident in its habitat, comfortable to watch the lesser beings scramble around in its presence. 

Technoblade didn’t swing his hands or shuffle his feet, standing stock-still and staring dead ahead at Phil. 

“I took your coins, you know.” A flash of silver and bronze weaved between the boy’s fingers, in and out. 

Philza studied the boy once again. “And where did you learn to do that little trick?” He nodded his head at Technoblade’s hand, still flashing the coins around. 

There was a pause, as if he’d finally stumped the kid. The snow was really starting to come down, white truly covering their surroundings and obscuring their only source of light. The moon was swiftly disappearing beneath the cloud cover. 

“That’s an unusual response.” Technoblade finally said. “Usually, they’re angry about it.”

“Usually?” Phil asked. “You do this often?”

Technoblade put the coins away, hidden in some pocket in his too-large pants. “Well, I didn’t come all the way out to this random town for nothin’.”

He shook his head, turning on his heel. The cold was starting to creep through his bones, infecting his veins and carrying the chill through his body. “You shouldn’t steal from strangers. Not everyone out here is kind.”

Philza left him with those parting words, strides lengthening again. He kept his head down, careful to look out for any surprise loose stones waiting to come up. 

But Technoblade didn’t seem to be content to leave him in that alley. He walked alongside the older man. “You’re deemin’ yourself kind, then?”

“No-” Philza shot the kid a dirty look, and restarted his sentence. “Not everyone out here can afford to lose that money. They’d have shaken you down for it.”

Technoblade snorted, as if the idea of being beat up in an alley was funny to him. “Yeah, the generosity around here is stunnin’.”

Philza turned onto the main road that’s not much of a main road. While made to be wide enough for horses, he had never seen any on the path. The shops and houses that lined it were only mildly nicer than those he had left behind. 

He let the boy’s words sit heavily in the air, clogging the flow of conversation. The silence was equal parts welcome and uncomfortable.

Finally, Phil broke. “Are you going to follow me all the way home?” He asked, fiddling with the compass he had pulled out of an inner coat pocket. 

“I already said you were interesting, didn’t I?” Technoblade focused in on the movement of Phil’s hands, eyes flicking back and forth as he watched the spindles tick and whirl, turning to focus on the pre-set point. “I thought you might impart some words of wisdom to me.”

The mocking lilt of the boy’s voice was enough to make him crack a smile. Phil shook his head, clearing away the mirth. “So you follow any old stranger home?” 

“Well I wasn’t going to call you old.” Technoblade shot back. He stuck a hand out wide, brushing the fresh snow off of the top of the dingy stone wall protecting a house’s yard from the road. 

Phil responded with a long suffering sigh. “How old are you? Eleven? I’m only ten years older than you.” 

“I’m not older than the winds that blow through this town and the clouds that swirl overhead, but I remember the birth of the moon. I am here now, and I will be here long after it descends below the horizon for the last time.” Technoblade answered easily.

“Okay!” Philza said. 

It was quiet again, leaving Philza to contemplate how the snow fell in droves and didn’t make a sound, only muffling the surrounding ones. Even among the ruination that was this shitty little town in the middle of fucksberg, no where, there was something beautiful about the little flakes. 

The way they floated through the air, how each one was slightly different, falling to the ground as if it was their only purpose- which it was. 

He focused his gaze on the boy once again. 

Technoblade moved like he was cutting through air. Philza found it hard to comprehend how the boy who might as well have been wearing robes and had no more than a decade of life experience under his belt walked like that. 

He was graceful. He moved through the world like he owned it and wasn’t afraid to fight for it. 

Philza didn’t know how to feel about it. If the boy knew he was being watched, or more accurately, studied, he didn’t show it. 

He suspected the kid wouldn’t be the type to acknowledge it either way, though. 

In fact, the next time Technoblade spoke was when Phil turned streets once again, this time into what was considered the nice part of town. It was a low bar. 

“If you live around here, why’d you slum it at that tavern?” He questioned, humor dancing through his tone. 

Philza looked at the kid out of the corner of his eyes, trying to convey his feelings on the question with a glance. Technoblade grinned at the action, showing off the odd teeth again. 

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” Phil finally asked. 

“Absolutely not. You know, I try to avoid people. I find it easier to live on my own. People disappoint you. You can’t rely too much on them.”

“I suppose that’s why you won’t take my coat, then?” Philza prodded, trying to get a least one solid answer out of the kid. 

This time, Technoblade was the one shooting him a dirty look. “I already told you,” The boy said irritably. “I would sweat to death in your giant coat.”

Philza made a mental note that the kid was impressively overdramatic. And who was he to call Phil’s coat giant when he was practically swimming in his own clothes?

He chose not to voice any of these thoughts, instead, stopping in front of the house that he had been squatting in for the past few moons. 

Phil tucked his compass back into his pocket, turning to the boy who had moved on to looking over the house. 

Looking at the small boy dwarfed by his clothes that walked with no fear and talked with such aggression, Philza felt an acute sense of sorrow for him. 

“You’ve come this far, why don’t you stay the night?” He offered, pausing in the doorway of the house that wasn’t really his. 

Technoblade considered the words. “Is it just you?” He asked, sounding hesitant for the first time that night. 

Philza scratched the back of his head, contemplating whether to lie or not. Ultimately, he chose truth, if only because it would become abruptly obvious sooner rather than later. “My friend lives with me. His name is Pete. Voiceoverpete.”

The kid hummed a response. Philza looked at him for what felt like ages, before the kid took an all too uncertain step forwards, up the stairs.

Phil pushed in the door, smiling. “Come on in, Technoblade. Are you feeling hungry?”

Pete’s voice rang through the emptied-out house. “Did you find any good scrap metal from the old junk yard?” 

They had first met in the military, when they were both grunt soldiers in Maeren’s growing army, before the nation was so thoroughly demolished by Khelor and those still embroiled in the conflict fled as fast as their feet would carry them. 

Phil felt that having a companion in this wasteland of a wintery territory was better than being entirely alone. 

“There was nothing!” He called back, stomping the snow out of his boots in the entryway, scattering the watery trails all over the rotten, wooden floorboards. Technoblade mimicked the action. “There’s never anything!”

Laughter filled the house. “Might as well ask!” 

Philza made his way into the main room, set up with tattered old blankets and a fireplace. Technoblade had followed on his heels all the way over, but wouldn’t enter the room. 

Pete turned, and blinked surprisedly at the additional person. “This is Technoblade.” Philza introduced him, gesturing with a lazy hand. He set himself up in front of the fire, palms outward to soak in as much heat as possible.

His feathers fluttered even while tucked against his back. 

“Hello, Technoblade.” Pete greeted him. “Would you like to come closer to the fire?” 

“Oh, he doesn’t-” Philza tried to explain the oddities of the boy, but Technoblade moved closer to the fire, sitting down next to Pete. 

“Thank you for inviting me to your home.” He said, the words formal in what was decidedly not a formal setting. 

Pete waved him off. “Glad to have some company.” He paused for a moment, before forging forwards. “Do you want me to fix your hair for you?” 

Technoblade’s hands shot up to the unruly nest that was his hair, shielding it protectively. “No, I don’t want to cut it.” 

Phil exchanged a tired glance with Pete. “What if he just trims the ends? We can wet it down, and we can comb it out.” 

He seemed to like that idea more, hands retracting. Technoblade nodded slightly, fiddling with his shirt. “Don’t cut it short, please.” He nearly whispered. 

Pete stood, rummaging around in the bag that laid haphazardly next to the man’s bed, items spilling out onto the floor. “I promise. We’ll just clean it up.” 

Technoblade shuffled closer, positioning himself next to the fire as the older man pulled the brush out of the bag, holding it aloft triumphantly. As Pete tried to figure out how to go about the task of detangling the mess that was his hair, Phil considered the boy once again.

The orangy glow of the fire cast an odd look about the boy. It made him look sickly, highlighting a scar that stretched from his shoulderblade to under his shirt. Phil watched a crown of sweat form at his brow. 

He clenched his eyes closed, gritting his teeth as Pete began to yank the comb through the strands of his hair. Technoblade’s head snapped forwards as the comb came free, and Pete started the cycle again. 

A bead of sweat trailed down the side of the boy’s face, falling and staining his otherwise remarkably white shirt. 

Phil turned back to his compass, the shiny, raised bumps familiar and welcoming.   
\-------------------------  
Morning came and went, and Technoblade never left. He and his freshly trimmed hair wandered around the space as if he owned the place, which was true of exactly none of them. He preferred the upper floors, the wandering hallways where the cold seemed to be omnipresent.

“Do you have breakfast here?” The boy called. His voice was followed by the sound of thunderous footsteps, the cacophony of running strides echoing through the hallowed halls and emptied rooms. 

He had told him earlier that he was trying to map out the layout of the house to determine how much space there really was. The boy had an overactive mind, useless knowledge bursting at the seams so often that he would sometimes spout random information. 

“There’s no breakfast!” Pete shouted back, the volume loud enough that the man in question could hear from his aforementioned position. 

The windows were cracked open and the door flung wide from the near house-fire accident that occured the previous night. Smoke still filtered out of the openings, clogging up the otherwise clear, crisp air. 

Technoblade gave no response that Phil could hear, only muttering something. Pete shooed him out of the house with the thin excuse that someone needed to check in on the chicken. 

The barely-sheltered sideyard was thankfully free of snow, giving him range of movement to go through the motions taught to him when he joined the band of mercenaries at sixteen. 

Technoblade bounded through the opened gate moments later, not pausing to greet the lone chicken Philza and Pete were barely managing to keep alive, fed with scattered seed and bowls of leftover stews. 

The boy stopped at the edge of the large circle Phil had drawn to show the boundaries of the practice yard. He stared unabashedly as the older man went about his workout. 

Pete stepped out after the boy, watching with a smile. “Impressive, isn’t it? He studied with so many different people. Can’t imagine why he chose to come back here.” 

“Where did he study?” Technoblade asked, eyes not moving from Phil. 

The older man thought for a moment, pausing to also watch. “Well, when we were still in the military together, he was sent away to study with the Anaros troops in Horned Bay. After we fled, he travelled the world for two or three years. He went all over the place.”

It’s true; When he left that notorious battlefield, he toured the continent. Every new weapon he found he studied, and every new person he met he taught him something. Philza wouldn’t call himself a worldly person, though. After all, he still ended up here, in the middle of nowhere.

Left slash, right slash, spinning around the dummy that was still rattling, and a downward arc that would have cut a man in half if used in battle. 

Across the dummy’s stomach he cut, wood scraping against the burlap material the crude imitation of a person was made of. 

When Philza stopped to take a break, leaning against his sword and wiping the sweat off of his brow, Technoblade took a bold step forwards. 

“Again, show me again.” He asked, breathless. Pete chuckled, swinging himself back into the house using the doorframe that was split in three places already. 

Phil let out a laugh that bordered on shocked. Of all things to be impressed by, he didn’t think the boy would choose this. 

“Would you like to learn, instead?” He offered.

Technoblade nodded quickly, eyes blown wide. The boy accepted the proffered wooden sword with grabby hands. Philza picked up the extra he kept in the mostly-empty rack against the wall of the house. 

He tried not to think about his old sword, the one that was lost. Philza was twenty-two, and yet he felt as though he had been alive for centuries. He admired how the boy was able to find joy in something so simple. 

His hands closed around the rough wooden hilt with wonder, fingers dancing along the dulled edge of the blade. 

“Watch out for splinters.” Philza reminded him, and was pleasantly surprised with a diligent nod. The seriousness within the boy was translating nicely into a studious manner. “Left foot behind, right out in front of you. It’s to keep you stable, so when you move you don’t do so carelessly.”

Technoblade shuffled to follow the instructions. “Do I swing downwards now?”

Phil huffed a laugh. “Not quite yet. Your grip should be loose on the handle, like cradling a bird. That doesn’t mean it should be easy to knock out of your hands, though. Once you think you’re ready, bring the sword down across your body. That’s block one.” 

He knocked swords with the boy to demonstrate the opposing attack. “If I bring the sword back the other way, can I disarm you?” Technoblade questioned. 

“Sure, that’s a strategy, but if you did that, I would probably move backwards, out of the way.” Phil tried to explain. 

“Don’t you not want to move backwards?” He pushed further. “Wouldn’t that let you corner yourself?”

Phil shrugged loosely. “If I was being aware of my surroundings, no. I would move out to the side, to make you circle me.” 

Overhead, a bird perched comfortably in an evergreen tree cawed at nothing, content to scream into the world. 

Technoblade thought about that for a moment. “Can we try sparring?” He asked. 

Phil scratched at his eyebrow. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea right now. You just learned how to hold the sword and stand properly.” 

The boy considered this. “Tomorrow?” 

“If you learn the basic attacks and blocks today, we can spar tomorrow.” Phil compromised. He had a feeling the kid was going to jump him the next day either way. The least he could do was make sure the boy knew how to dodge and block. 

Technoblade grinned, and held up his sword once again. His stance was so good Phil might have suspected he already learned these movements. “Then let’s hear what the moves are.”   
\-------------------------  
For someone who insisted that people only disappointed him, Technoblade was perfectly content to eat their food and live alongside them, learn what Phil taught him. A fortnight had passed, and it seemed that he would never leave. Neither Philza nor Pete was complaining. 

He slashed wide, dodging Philza’s blow and returning one of his own. While it should have clashed at his hip, he was faster. 

Technoblade frowned as he watched the older man spin out of the way, trying to go the on offensive again. Phil wouldn’t give in that easily though, holding his ground. 

He pushed the younger backwards, foot angled wide in a move he hadn’t taught the boy, and hooked his wooden sword wide, trying to send Technoblade’s flying. 

It didn’t work. The kid held fast, feet braced in the ground. He pushed forwards, forcing Phil to cede a reluctant step. 

It also didn’t last, as Phil turned wide, switching up the roles. He slammed his sword forwards and Technoblade put up a shaky guard, only to be stopped by the firm wall of the house they had inadvertently drifted towards. 

The boy was a fast study, Philza had learned, soaking up every bit of information that he offered him. 

“I want to go again.” Technoblade insisted, readjusting his near-perfect grip on the sword. 

Phil rolled his shoulder out. He wasn’t yet used to fighting with something that struck back. “I’ll take you out to a field sometime, that way we won’t have to be penned in.” 

Their neighbors weren’t exactly happy about the new addition to their household. Things became a lot louder all at once. 

Pete stepped out of the doorway, shivering as he adjusted to the temperature drop. “We need to get you some actual clothes, today. Yours are starting to stink.” He reminded the boy. 

Technoblade sulked, but put the sword down. Philza followed suit, ushering him out of the fenced area adjoining their house. “Pete’s right. You reek.” 

He fished around in his pocket for the comfort of the compass as they walked. 

As they approached the curb, Phil spoke up again. “Are you stopping by the scrap yard on the way home?” 

Pete shrugged loosely as Technoblade trailed behind them. “There’s not much there, I’ve been checking nightly. Not much people can afford to throw away, these days. Why?”

“I was thinking of making a real sword for the kid. It doesn’t have to be good metal, just something I can make a model out of.” He explained. They stopped at the edge of the property, waiting for the kid in question to catch up. 

“I’ll see what I can do.” Pete said, placing his hand on the small of Technoblade’s back to steer him in the right direction. 

Philza smiled goodnaturedly. “That’s all I ask.” 

“What did he want?” Technoblade asked, kicking at a rock that had dislodged from one of the paving stones. 

“He’s trying to make you a real sword, instead of the wooden ones.” Pete supplied, checking the buildings as they passed them. It wasn’t often that him or Philza went into this part of town.

Here, on the main street, there were too many people, gaunt faces that looked on with dead eyes and demanded vengeance for injustices that piled up till there were too many to count. The buildings themselves were nicer, two story homes in colors of black and grey and white, wooden huts making up the backdrop. 

“A real sword? He’s going to forge it himself?” The thinly veiled condescension in his voice that he was clearly trying to cover up to spare Philza’s feelings made Pete burst into laughter. 

“He has friends across the sea who specialize in this sort of thing. I suspect he’ll call in a favor with them. It will be a nice sword, truly.” 

Technoblade looked down at his feet as they walked, and back up at Pete. “That was a nice thing for him to do.” He said eventually. 

“Yes, it was. You should thank him when we get back.” Pete instructed. “He also did a good thing, bringing you into the house.”

“I suppose.” 

It was baby steps, Pete reminded himself. He got the kid to be grateful for the sword, at least. For the last fortnight, everything had revolved around Technoblade, trying to get him readjusted to other people and get him to eat and not freeze to death in the upper floors of the house.

It was actually kid of nice, having another person living with them. He was more than a welcome presence at meals, even if he wouldn’t eat the soup and insisted on eating with his hands. Watching Technoblade learn was fascinating in and of itself. 

“For now, we just need to pick up your things.” Pete said. The walk into town wasn’t that far from their house, not if they cut through the blocks and rows of buildings like they had.

The door had a little bell that rang when they stepped through, alerting the shop owner to their presence. 

The place was dominated by racks and racks of working supplies, like ice picks and sturdy rope, all of it dedicated to the one thing that the people around here knew would draw a profit. Ice exports weren’t enough to sustain the entire population, though. In fact, it barely sustained the upper class.

Technoblade disappeared behind the stacks of useless, unbought equipment almost immediately. Pete forged ahead without him anyways. 

“I’m here to pick up an order under Philza. It should be custom clothes.” He told the shopkeeper, fiddling with the previously agreed upon payment. 

The coins were freezing in his coat pocket, and not much better when he drew them out to scatter across the countertop. 

The shopkeep looked away, turning to grab the order. He wandered in between the aisles, looking for Technoblade. The boy was nowhere to be found.

Pete had nearly exited the last aisle when he spotted something else that captured his attention. A small bookshelf, with a section on other cultures. He sorted through the dusty old tomes, pulling out a few that looked interesting. 

A History of the War-Scythe, Learning Hand-to-Hand Combat, and Swords From the Qe’then Isles were the notable mentions. 

He set them down atop the counter, and added a few more coins to pay for them.

The shopkeep returned moments later, laden with a pile of clothes neatly tied together with a string. 

He accepted the package and scooped up the books, gesturing to the coins. “It should all be there.” 

“That’s what I’m supposed to check.” She said, already starting to count. 

The bell rang once again as new customers streamed in. A family, with two daughters that were laughing and pushing one another. 

Pete turned back to the woman at the counter just as she waved him off. He looked around, trying to spot Technoblade. 

He caught a glimpse of the pink hair out the shop’s dusty window, and pushed past the lovely family to get outside. 

The cold was a shock to his system, sending an involuntary shudder through him. The boy stood against the backdrop of the forest, the edge of town framed by thorny bushes and evergreens.

Technoblade turned, showing off off the pure white bird that sat atop his finger. It was tiny. “Look.” He whispered in a hushed tone.

The ghost of a smile crossed Pete’s face as he watched the boy rub the bird’s chin. “Do you know what kind of bird that is?” 

“No.” He answered shortly. 

“It’s a snowbird. They’re native here. They can’t survive in any other environment.” 

“Whoever named ‘em wasn’t feelin’ too creative, were they?” Technoblade snorted. The bird cawed in response, sounding eerily like a laugh. 

“Well, this town isn’t exactly known for its arts.” Pete answered a question the boy didn’t ask. 

He lifted his arm up, letting the bird flap away. Even then, it didn’t go far, settling down on the nearby rooftop. “What’d you have there?”

“Books. I think you’ll find them more interesting than the ones Phil’s been pushing.” Philza had been trying to convince Technoblade that he needed a comprehensive education, upon learning that he could read and write but had never been to school. “They’re about weaponry, techniques for fighting.”

That certainly caught the boy’s attention. “Can I see?” 

He handed them over, dumping them in Technoblade’s outstretched arms. “You should wait until we’re home to read them.” He urged gently. “We have to stop to get the metal for your sword, first.” 

Technoblade sighed dramatically, but closed the cover of one of the books, gathering them in his arms tightly. 

As they began walking again, the bird finally left its perch, wings fluttering against the blue sky.   
\-------------------------  
Technoblade stood with his back to Phil and Pete, looking out over the cliff that dropped off abruptly to meet icy ocean. 

Philza had promised to bring him here long ago, and had finally made good on it. It was just as beautiful as he expected. 

The beginnings of a smile graced his features, the one that Philza had come to learn was rare. 

His hard-edged, vicious half-grins didn’t count, the ones that revealed the monster Philza was afraid lived within him. They showed up almost too often, that sign of the wildness that still wouldn’t be squashed.

Moons had come and gone, and the boy that wasn’t really a boy anymore stayed with them. They celebrated his seventeenth ‘birthday’ last week, even though it probably wasn’t his actual date of birth- just the day he came home with Philza. 

The snowbird that had also become part of their lives landed atop Technoblade’s shoulder, preening. It had grown almost as much as him, with sharp talons and winged feathers. He ran fingernails down the bird’s back gently, scratching in the way he knew the creature like it best. 

Technoblade spent his days furiously reading the books that Pete brought home from his travels, training outside with Philza, and wandering the hillsides with the snowbird. 

There was a thirst in him that they couldn’t quite quench, a desire to be out in the wild, uninhibited. No amount of manners lessons or training sessions had been effective in quelling it. 

“Techno, are you ready?” Pete asked, taking off his gloves. He pulled them off finger by finger, a peculiar habit that he never bothered to try and break. 

The real reason they had come up to this secluded cliff wasn’t to spar, although Technoblade’s hand was still loosely curled around the sword made six years prior. Phil claimed those who owed him a favor were still crafting the real one, but Techno was more than content to hang on to the scrap metal one.

He would die before admitting it, but it was the first gift he had ever received, barring the books that had spiralled into an obsession all those years later. 

Technoblade turned to face his family. “I’ve been waiting for years, of course I’m ready.”

Pete cocked an eyebrow, grinning. “It’s hard to prepare yourself for something like this.”

“Oh, I’m prepared.” Technoblade assured the two men. 

Philza laughed at the cockiness of the statement, but shrugged off his first two jackets. Before he removed the last one, he tossed Pete the compass he carried with him at all times. 

The snowbird cawed loudly. Technoblade had refused to give it a name. “Where’d you get that? It seems precious to you.” 

“A woman I loved a lifetime ago.” Phil smiled, and it was not a sad thing nor a happy one. “Her name was Kristen.” 

Technoblade left it alone after that, as did Pete.

Once he was unburdened by it, he pulled off the last jacket, revealing the wings that he hadn’t freed in years. 

They fluttered free, unbound in the wind. It felt good, the wind rushing between his feathers, even if he was freezing. It made him feel alive. 

Once, before fear and paranoia creeped in and forced him to keep them hidden at all times, he made Pete measure them. 

They had thirty foot wingspan, all the way across. In the rays of the dying sun, the burnt orange and flaming red shades were illuminated wonderfully. They looked as if they were eternally burning.

Technoblade was stunned. “They’re- They’re beautiful, Phil.” 

“I know.” He whispered back. They beat gently in the air, adding to the wind current. 

He was proud of them once, so proud. Now they seemed unsightly, misshapen with feathers sticking out in the wrong places from areas he should have been preening. 

If only the phoenixes hadn’t been hunted to near extinction, maybe he would have been able to stay in his old homeland. Maybe he would have been able to fly. 

Philza had a lot of regrets, most of them stemming from the letters he still penned every other night and sent off. Not being able to fly was relatively low down on his list of priorities, these days. 

It was easy to shove the surging feeling of hope down, right next to the rest of the hurt that piled up. 

He wanted it so bad it hurt. 

But Philza was used to that caving feeling in his chest. He had learned to live with it long ago.

He was drawn out of wallowing in his own misery by the shocking cold that exploded across his chest. 

Technoblade laughed, watching Philza mop the snow off of himself, lunging towards Pete who was trying to protest his innocence. 

Looking at the pair throwing virtually unformed snowballs at one another and dash around the flat space brought a smile to his face. 

Things weren’t all bad, after all. He had his family, Technoblade and Pete and that snowbird that was omnipresent, always yelling at ungodly hours in the morning. 

Backlit by the sun, the world seemed perfect. He wanted to freeze this moment in time, to make sure that every moment would be as wonderful as this one. 

“Hey, hey hey- I’m innocent!” Technoblade screamed as Phil packed a new snowball, pointing at him. 

“You sat idly by and watched!” Philza laughed. “You’re complicit!” 

He hurled the ball, watching as Technoblade ducked out of the way. 

Pete cackled, pegging him with one while he was down. It hit Techno dead on, snow bursting against his pink hair. 

Another one of the his many oddities. He had since learned to take care of it, though, and whenever they sparred, most of it went up into a bun with a braid snaking out from underneath it. 

As Technoblade retaliated with a snowball so large it could have been the beginnings of a snowman, Philza really let himself smile. 

Because even though his wings were a big part of why they were on this hilltop, they weren’t the real reason either. 

“Let’s go, boys. We need answers.” He said, sounding downright jovial. 

They were finally going to see what the compass led to. If the thing was accurate in any sense of the word, then they were close. 

In fact, the hike to get here was so short that Phil felt a bit bad for never trying to follow the hand constantly pointing up here. 

After that, it was quiet, other than the occasional bickering and when Technoblade made them listen to the tune he had taught the snowbird. 

Till finally, they approached an ice cliff that stretched seemingly in all directions. 

The compass circled wildly, marking this as the destination. His wings fluttered idly. 

“This.. is it?” Pete asked, sounding incredulous. Philza didn’t blame him. 

While the size of the ice wall was certainly impressive, surrounded by trees so tall they seemed to touch the clouds, it was an odd spot for a compass- an intricate one, at that- to lead. 

Technoblade didn’t seem so confounded by it, though. He pressed a hand against the ice, and lowered his head. “You guys might want to stand back.” 

Philza and Pete looked at one another, but did as he said. 

There was a shaking sound, like ice cracking, and the cliff opened. 

A castle was revealed to the world, sticking out of the landscape like a sore thumb with countless towers and adjoining structures, spreading out from it for what seemed like miles. It was made of blackstone and tinged with grey, looking equal parts regal and threatening. He didn’t know how no one had ever found it. 

“Where did you say Kristen got this compass?” Pete asked him, throwing him a confused look.

Phil floundered for an answer. “She didn’t. All she told me was that a man came by and offered it to her. He wouldn’t accept payment or anything.” 

“That’s not odd at all.” Technoblade remarked dryly. His snowbird cawed in agreement. 

“Well? Aren’t we going to explore it?” Pete threw out, stepping past the ice walls. 

Technoblade smiled right back, and ventured forwards. 

While they walked down the path that looked like caretaking had never never ceased on, Philza studied their surroundings. 

To their left, extensive gardens followed the path. On the right, a veritable town stood, probably for the small army of staff it would take to man this castle. 

Philza wracked his brain trying to remember the history of the Antarctic. Did he miss an important part about a long-lost royal family? 

As far back as he could remember, the Antarctic had never been tamed or leashed to a King’s will. It was eternally free, too wild and too hard to hold for long. Many had attempted, but none had succeeded. 

Ahead of him, Technoblade pressed his palm to a large doorway, shoving inwards. Pete followed him. 

Philza quickened his pace to keep up with the others.

“I think this is the south pole.” Technoblade offered up. “We should call dibs.” 

Pete laughed, shouldering the boy. 

Philza settled for a chuckle. “Well, now it’s official.” 

The foyer wasn’t dominated by the grand staircases wrapping up and around to the second floor, but by a glass case with a mannequin head in it. 

Atop the mannequin’s head was the room’s true centerpiece, though. 

A crown made of steel. It was a simple enough band, but the intricate carvings inlaid in the surface told a different story. It must have been the crown to this castle. Philza had never seen anything so perfectly sum up the soul of the Antarctic.

Technoblade approached it, studying the surface. There were words inscribed among the other designs. 

“What do you think it says?” Pete mused. 

“Conqueror of Storms.” Technoblade answered after a moment. 

Phil raised an eyebrow. “What language is it in?”

The boy shrugged. “Don’t know.” 

As odd an answer that was, both of the other men were used to Technoblade knowing things he should have no way of knowing. 

Phil looked at the boy who had opened the cliff for a minute, really looked, and was met with a weird sight.

Technoblade looked right at home. When he turned to look at Phil, he gave the older man one of his rare genuine smiles.

Philza rolled his eyes affectionately, slinging an arm over the boy’s shoulder. “Let’s go. We don’t know who lives here.”

“Or what.” Pete added helpfully, sending them into a fit of laughter.


	2. The Fall

Technoblade was shaken awake the next morning by a rumbling, a growing tremor in the ground that was punctuated by screaming and hysteria. 

Next to him, Philza jolted upwards, already moving into action. As he tried to stumble out of the bed, the older man shook Pete awake, and began stuffing things into a bag. 

“Jesus christ- Techno, wake Pete up.” He demanded when the man didn’t move, still hurrying about the space. 

Technoblade did as he was told, even though standing meant he was on unsteady feet, the world tilting around him. He put a hand to his forehead, bracing himself against the wall as he stumbled over to Pete. 

“Phil needs you awake,” He told the sleeping form, shaking his shoulder roughly. “He’s packing things up.” 

Pete looked up at him blearily, just as another tremor rocked the world, sending Technoblade clattering to the floor. 

The right wall of their house fell inwards, the structure collapsing. Technoblade scrambled back to his feet, grabbing Pete’s arm and wrenching him up. 

Philza was nowhere to be found in either of the adjoining rooms, and if he wanted Pete to survive, he couldn’t afford to leave him to look for the other man. 

So Technoblade gritted his teeth, and hoped that he made it out. 

When they fell out of the ruins of their old house, they landed next to Phil. 

Moments later, another quake sent their house fully crumbling, wood cracking and brick chimney tumbling to the ground. With one last groan, it fell in on itself. 

Technoblade raised his hand to clench the older man’s tightly. Philza squeezed back briefly, letting him go just as quickly. 

“We need to move.” His words were punctuated by the roar of a creature. 

Technoblade looked around at the near total destruction of their town with wide eyes. “What… is that thing?” 

Clouds swirled overhead. 

“Dragon. It’ll be an ice one, this far south.” Pete supplied, still rubbing sleep from his eyes. Philza pulled the man’s arm over his shoulder, supporting some of his weight. 

“This will be the first one in a while. What drew it back?” Phil shot back, readjusting his grip on Pete. 

The man struggled with the question, before seemingly accepting defeat. “Honestly? Probably the surge in magic when you revealed your wings.”

That got a grimace out of Phil, but he forged ahead. “It’s going to destroy the town. We need to leave.” He urged.

Technoblade followed the other two as they set off down the road at a brisk pace, overtaking many haggard looking people limping. Some were bloodied and battered, others frostbitten and freezing, but all looked miserable. 

Philza looked similar, and Technoblade wondered if he felt responsible for this. He didn’t know how to comfort the older man. 

That question was quickly swept aside by the next one as more and more people dashed past them, still others lagging behind. How bad the attacks were that this was enough for the entire town to pack up?

Philza turned as he slowed, stopping in his tracks. He tried to tug him along, but Technoblade was rooted to the spot. 

The massive beast crested the line of houses that were formerly obscuring it, revealing it to be the size of a mountain; It’s scales were dark grey, and the leathery wings that stretched upwards were edged with a bluish tint that blended with what looked like ice spikes coming off of its body. 

Screaming its defiance into the world, it was beautiful and intimidating and free. 

Technoblade took a step forward, against the protests of Philza. And then another, and another, till he was running towards it, against the stream of people. 

It roared a war cry into the air that called to something deep inside of him, reverberating around the cavity in his chest that the monster inhabited. 

His feet hit the paving stones in even strides, icy air hitting his lungs and soothing his gasps. As Technoblade ran, wholly focused on the dragon, the storm overhead grew to a tempest, snow falling and temperatures dropping. 

And as he turned the last corner, people pushing past him in an effort to escape it’s wrath, the dragon finally turned its attention to him. 

It opened its gaping mouth, rows and rows and rows of teeth bared that all looked sharp as knives. It was magnificent. 

Then it breathed. 

Technoblade didn’t bother trying to duck out of the way as icy flames hit him, wave after wave. 

For the first time in his life, he understood what cold was. An icy, scraping feeling that left him raw and vulnerable. 

He didn’t shy away from it, bracing his feet in the ground and weathering the storm. He embraced it, letting it wash over him like the tide. 

You are made of ice and fury, and you do not yield. The world whispered to him, the voice in his head returning for the first time since he had met Philza and Pete seven years ago. 

So Technoblade didn’t look down or away, or cede even a step. He did not yield. 

When the dragon faltered, ice dissipating, Technoblade still stood. 

It studied him for an endless moment, staring directly into his soul. The world around him paused. 

The dragon bent its head, and snorted. Ice crystals billowed through the air, and even though there were still people screaming and running, trying to pull what they could from the wreckage, Technoblade couldn’t hear it. 

All he could feel was the give of the leathery hide of the dragon underneath his boots as he stepped forwards, using one of its curled horns to swing himself up and over, onto its neck. 

Then Technoblade was climbing, hand over foot up the dragon’s side, till he reached a place where he could lock his legs and grab its horned back. 

He dragged his fingertips along its hide, just to feel the unfamiliar cold again.

The dragon reared, wings flapping, and roared again, but this time, it didn’t sound quite as angry. It sounded proud. 

Next to him, a little answering roar sounded, squeaky and quiet, and then another after it. When he turn to look, two baby dragons lay.

They were each the size of a small child, but that didn’t stop them from scrambling up upon seeing him. The first one was pure white, white as his snowbird, and clambered up to sit on his shoulder, curled around his neck. 

The second was closer to its parent, with a bluer grey. It sat on his lap, blowing out small ice flames that didn’t even reach his legs. When he ran a hand over its spine, he felt a rush of power unlike anything he’d ever known. 

Technoblade did it again with the other dragon on his shoulder, letting it nuzzle up into his palm. He felt invincible. 

And sitting atop the dragon, looking over the ruins, with the two babies surrounding him, Technoblade wondered if he had ever really felt alive before that day. 

The people below him had stopped running to look up at him in awe, some bowing, others praying. 

Technoblade could understand the language of the stars, the whispering of the wind, the washing of the tides. They spoke to him in words so garbled he hadn’t been able to hear them before today, but they were always there, waiting.

It wasn’t the world itself that had told him stories in the ageless dark, guiding him into the daylight, but the pieces that it was made up of. 

They were waiting for him. 

I will make you a king, my child. They told him as he overlooked the beautiful destruction. A king like nothing this world has seen. 

But Technoblade should have thought to ask what it would cost.   
\-------------------------  
He woke to a crushing feeling in his chest that felt like he was choking. Technoblade bolted up, eyes adjusting to the dark as he tried to get to his feet, pushing unbound hair out of his face.

“Philza? Philza,” He panted. 

Phil blinked awake near instantaneously, looking around for the threat. “What’s wrong?” By now, he was used to being woken up by nightmares from the boy. 

“My chest, my chest Phil, I can’t breath!” He heaved, panicked. His lungs were folding in on themselves, the pain like a fire lighting in his stomach. 

He jumped into action, hands flying across Technoblade’s upper chest to find the source of the hurt, but felt nothing. This was not normal, unlike anything Phil had seen. 

When he turned to ask Pete what could be wrong, there was no one in the pile of blankets in the bed across the room. They had found another house, one that wasn’t as destroyed, after the events. 

Phil really felt awake, now. He stood immediately, and Technoblade tried to follow suit, still gasping for air that would not come. 

Outside their window, fire torches flickered, snickering laughter sounding. 

“The dragons, where are the dragons?” Phil demanded. 

“Outside, in the yard.” Technoblade gasped out. 

They had grown in the weeks since they had basically adopted them. The larger dragon hadn’t been content to stay with them, flying back off from whence it came as soon as Technoblade had left his perch on its back. 

Technoblade used the wall to drag himself into the doorway, hot on Phil’s heels. 

The older man paused in the doorway, sucking in a labored breath himself. “Let them go. We have done you no harm.”

A muffled voice answered back, “Bring out the dragon boy and we’ll let him go.” 

“He’s still a child.” A voice that sounded suspiciously like Pete’s said. “Keep him out of this.”

Technoblade pushed past Phil with maybe more force than strictly needed, breaths still coming fast. 

The sight was horrendous. 

At least twenty soldiers stood at their front step, swords at the ready. One held the white dragon aloft, dagger pointed right at its heart. It thrashed and screamed to no avail. 

Next to them, Pete was stock-still. A man had a knife pressed against his throat, a red, bloody line already present. 

Lying in the middle of the half-circle of soldiers, his grey dragon bled profusely from the stomach. Technoblade knew from the pain in his stomach that it was already dead. 

“Please, let them go. Please.” He tried, inching forwards. 

One of the soldiers laughed. “Don’t get too big for your boots, now. Dragons are Maeren property. Ice dragons aren’t meant to be domesticated.” 

“We aren’t domesticating them. They’re just staying with us for now.” Philza explained hurriedly, eyes darting between the knives pointed at vitals. 

“Ah-ah,” The soldier in front tutted. “The boy’s reaction to the bond being destroyed tells me that’s a lie.”

“I didn’t mean to, I didn’t,” Technoblade blabbered. “I’m sorry, please let them go, you can take me, please leave them, they haven’t done anything. They’re innocent, I promise, please.” 

There was another round of laughter. None of them wore helmets, and that was somehow worse because he could see their eyes, how they leered at him, laughing at his misery. 

Philza stepped forwards to do something, and the man who seemed to be in charge, raised his eyebrows, tilting his head. “I’m not sure I would do that if I were you.” 

In response, the man holding Pete pressed the dagger closer, causing the man to choke on air, blood trickling down his neck. 

The dragon cried pitfully. 

“What do you want?” Philza demanded. “Why are you here?”

More laughter from the head soldier. “Pick.” 

“Pick?” He asked. 

“The boy has to pick which one he wants to keep. The dragon, or the man.” 

The world seemed to stop. Technoblade’s head spun, every nerve on fire. A tear slipped down his cheek, to raucous laughter. 

The whispers were deafening, their jeers reaching his ears as he bent over his knee, gasping inwards to get any air at all in his lungs.

“Please,” He begged, one last time.

“Choose, or we’ll kill both.” The head soldier told him in a voice laced with humor, as if this situation was funny. To him, it probably was. 

“I’m sorry.” He whispered, another tear track forming on his other cheek. “Goodbye.” 

Philza’s expression was wrathful. “How dare you-” 

“Don’t kill Pete.” Technoblade answered, louder than the other man. 

“Aw, look at that. You made the hard choice.” The soldier shot back with false sympathy. 

The man holding the dragon plunged the dagger up and into its heart, and Technoblade was hit with the force of it, falling backwards. 

The tears fell freely now. 

“If only you had made the decision sooner, then maybe we wouldn’t have had to take such drastic measures.” The soldier said. 

Before Technoblade could even comprehend what that meant, stand up so he could fight against it, the soldier holding Pete slashed his throat in a clean movement. 

The man’s lifeless body fell to the cold, hard, ground. 

The soldier in charge strode across the short space between them, pushed a shell-shocked Philza to the side, and gripped Technoblade’s chin tightly. 

“Why?” He asked, unable to struggle. “I did what you asked, you killed the dragon, why?”

Technoblade looked inside himself for the monster that always seemed to haunt his chest, waiting to be release, but there was nothing there.

The monster was gone, replaced by bottomless grief.

There was no answer. The soldier studied his face for a moment, and quick as a viper, slashed a hidden dagger across it, cutting him open from cheekbone to chin in a shallow cut that was clearly a warning.

“The King of Maeren sends his regards.” The soldier said, raising his knife for what looked like another strike. 

Before the man could drive it through his heart, Philza shoved him away, hauling Technoblade up by the arm. 

“Run.” He said, and run the boy did. 

But not before scooping up the corpses of his dragons, the baby dragons that had just wanted a home like him those years ago. With one bitter last look at Pete’s body that he would not be able to carry no matter how much he wanted to, he took off at a sprint. 

Technoblade hated them. He hated the soldiers so much his stomach roiled, the feeling clawing at his throat. It hit him dead on, the fury. 

Still he ran, following Philza. 

As they sprinted through the streets and wreckage, he saw why it was so light out in the dead of night. 

The soldiers had set fire to the entire town, ruins and all. It was all up in flames, dead bodies littering the streets.

Technoblade shoved down the urge to vomit, putting on a burst of speed to keep up with Philza, who was looking pointedly up at the horizon. 

“To the castle,” Technoblade panted. “We can seal it up after us.” 

Philza nodded, but didn’t look back. 

Their clattering footsteps were thunderous in the dark, and the apparent army that the king of Maeren had sent stopped light fires to chase them through the night.

Technoblade’s lip curled, watching the ones in front take such delight in this. 

He followed Philza, through the bending curves of the streets and into the forests, up the cliffs where he had shown them his wings and through the berry bush fields where they had eaten so many of the red fruits they had gotten sick, they ran. 

Pressing the dragons corpses closer, the blood smeared across his shirt, the stench of death rotting in his nose. 

Technoblade cried as they ran, breaths coming in heavy and chest caving. 

The soldiers behind them did not stop because he and Philza did not stop, and they did not rest, because he and Philza did not rest. 

As they approached the crisscrossing ice sheets stretching upwards and outwards forever, Technoblade prepared himself. 

He burrowed into the cavern within him and pleaded with the monster to make an appearance, if only because he was sure they were dead if it didn’t. 

The monster did not respond, and Technoblade was too preoccupied with bargaining uselessly with it to notice that Philza was lagging behind. 

When he turned to locate the man, he was faced with a horrific sight. Tears blurred his vision, his head spinning, and even then he could tell. 

“Philza!” He screamed, to no avail. 

The compass was already sailing through the air, skidding to a stop in the snow in front of his feet. 

And Philza was already skewered from behind, the point of a soldier’s sword sticking clean through him. 

For the first time in his entire life, the world was dead silent. 

Technoblade had lived with the sound of wings and fury inhabiting his head for more than a decade, and only realized it when they were gone. 

Gone. 

Philza was gone. The man that had taught him to fight and made him read books about history and walked with him around town and calmed him back to sleep when he woke in the night with nightmares about being alone on the street again was gone. 

Technoblade felt hollow. He dropped the dragons’ corpses next to the compass in the snow, and wiped an arm across his face to smear the tears. 

The soldiers approached again, laughing and making comments that he couldn’t even hear. 

Three feet. Philza had gone down three feet away from the ice sheet that would have saved their lives. 

That moment, with their jeering in the background and Philza’s dead body laying in fresh snow, Technoblade realized something.

The wind picked up around him, growing to a howl, clouds swirling overhead forming a wrathful storm. The temperature dropped abruptly. 

He was the monster, he was in control, and he was going to kill these soldiers. 

The head soldier stepped out of the crowd, starting a sentence, but Technoblade didn’t hear him. 

“You’re going to regret doing that.” He told the man. The blood from his face had been wiped around, painting him in an unholy red. His hair flowed unbound in the wind. 

The man paused, face going blank with panic. He fell to the snow, writhing and curling. The soldiers around him stepped backwards, shouting and pointing. 

A monster didn’t live inside him; Technoblade was the monster. 

He turned his attention to the rest of them, wielding the power he had been gifted. 

They would all share the same fate, he had already decided, all but one. A messenger who could return to the king of Maeren and tell him just how badly he had fucked up. 

And to his will they bent, falling and thrashing. Technoblade could feel their deaths whisper past him, a cruel sense of victory bubbling up next to the all-encompassing hatred. 

The one leftover soldier cowered when he came close. “You- you killed them.” The man blanched.

Technoblade cocked his head. “I did.” 

“Their blood, you froze their blood!” He squeaked out, scrambling backwards to escape him. 

“I did.” He repeated, voice monotone. He couldn’t muster the energy to sound anything but. 

The only emotion that would surface was rage. “But-”

“You’re going to go back to wherever you came from, and you’re going to tell your King what happened here today.” 

By the time the man had run off and Technoblade was free to mourn all that he had lost in a day, Philza’s body was turning to ash and there was nothing left for him to clutch but the compass and his dead dragons.

And as the sun rose, Technoblade stood at the edge of the castle that hadn’t saved them, looking over the town that burned brightly. 

His snowbird fluttered down, to sit on his shoulder. 

He sunk to the ground, hugging his knees, and cried as he watched the bird of flame leave what used to be Philza and was now only a pile of ashes, flitting off into the horizon.   
\-------------------------  
The next time the voice that he was nearly sure was winter talked to Technoblade was moons later. It banged at the doors of the wardrobe in the room he inhabited, shaking the drawers on the carved, wooden nightstand. 

A visitor, It told him. They’ve come bearing gifts. 

It had left him alone for so long, to wallow in his grief and rage at the world without actually taking actions. When the sun had set the day after Phil and Pete and his dragons died, he walked into the icy clutches of the hidden Keep and sealed the cliff behind him. 

Technoblade didn’t rise from the bed. The winter should have known better than to try and reason with him. 

He wasn’t a king. He didn’t have an army or a kingdom or even a family anymore. 

It tried again. They have something special for you. 

Even now, it knew better than to call him ‘my child’ again. He shoved a pillow over his head, as if it would muffle anything. 

Rise. It demanded, with more intensity. You will be a king, whether you want it or not. You were born for this. It is your purpose and your right, and you will claim it. 

Just to shut up the voice, Technoblade sat upright, ruffling his own hair and yawning. 

When he wandered into the Keep, he had spotted what was probably a ceremonial dagger and a mirror, and cut off almost all of his hair. 

He couldn’t bear to look at the braid Pete had taught him how to do, the bun that Philza complimented. 

His snowbird squawked at the early wake up, fluttering off the perch he had set up and out the doors. More often than not, it explored the hallowed halls of the Keep during the days, but always came back at the end of the day. 

Technoblade stretched, stumbling out of the only rooms he ever entered and down the stairs, to the landing of the Keep. 

Still wearing sleepclothes, he wandered down the path. The storm overhead still raged, spilling snow and lightening. 

The thin grip he used to have on the winter disappeared when his family was slaughtered. He had no control over it now. 

The terrible storm had worn on for moons, and the end to his power was nowhere in sight. 

Maybe he should have been scared. He wasn’t. 

Technoblade pressed his palm to the ice, screwing his eyes closed, and listened for the telltale crack that sounded both of the other times he had done this. Like the world was splitting, the ice opened up. 

He looked anywhere but the horizon, and his eyes found their home watching a man shivering. 

The man wore a beanie and held a package aloft, his teeth audibly chattering. He wasn’t dressed for the cold, a yellow sweater the only thing keeping him warm. 

There was nothing special about him, so why did the winter insist he come out to greet him? 

The man gasped when he saw Technoblade, scrambling to his feet. “Are you Technoblade, by any chance?” 

“Yes, that’s me.” Still, no emotion colored his voice. Even the rage had ebbed away after so long, leaving him with nothing but the vast emptiness. 

“I’m Wilbur, Wilbur Soot.” He explained, thrusting the package forwards. “This is for you, special order.” 

Technoblade accepted it warily, suspicious of the man’s cheerful tone. It was heavy, so heavy he almost dropped it, unprepared for the weight. 

“I travelled all the way here to deliver it to you because it was important.” Wilbur Soot added excitedly. 

The wrapping had been done nicely, neatly packaging the odd shaped object. Technoblade tore through it, receiving a flinch from the other man that didn’t go unnoticed. 

A sword. 

It was the fucking sword Philza had asked the forge he studied with to make for him eight years ago. 

It looked like it had been crafted from shadows and the stars, the blade perfectly balanced and the hilt made for his hand. It was ancient and terrible, ageless. It matched the crown inside so well he wondered if the man had known even before they ventured into the Keep that one day he would live in it.

He hated how perfect it was. 

Wilbur Soot was still talking. “I came because of this map, it led right here, and when he left he promised that I would always have a home with him,” 

“Who promised?” Technoblade cut in impatiently. 

“Philza Minecraft.” 

Technoblade damn near fell to his knees in the snow.   
\-------------------------  
When he did right himself, he invited the man in. 

“Have you lived here long? I don’t recall seeing any castles on the map Phil gave me.” Wilbur inquired, running a hand along the staircase’s curving railing. 

Technoblade sighed. “No, only a few moons.” He knew his answers were short, and he also knew that he saved that old-looking bottle of wine in the bedside cabinet for a reason. He needed to be drunk to tell this story, for sure. 

He gestured for Wilbur to enter the room, and followed after, shutting the door. 

Before the man could start talking, Technoblade quickly poured himself a drink. 

Once he was satisfied with the amount of liquor gone, he cleared his throat. 

“Philza is dead.” The words felt heavy leaving his lips, and he didn’t feel lighter for having said them. The crushing reality was always there, a few steps behind him. 

Wilbur blinked, looked at the wine, then back to Technoblade, and then back to the wine. He snatched it out of the other man’s hands, and drank straight from the bottle. 

“That’s not good.” Wilbur Soot commented helpfully. 

“No.” Technoblade agreed. “It’s not.” 

“How long ago?”

He took another drink, and passed the bottle to Technoblade, who did the same, repeating the cycle. “Four or five moons? He went down outside the cliff.”

“The one you opened?” Wilbur asked, taking another swig. He wiped his mouth off, offering the bottle back to Technoblade, who accepted it with open arms. 

He nodded. “Three feet. Thirty more seconds and he would have been safe.” The words were bitter, he couldn’t help it. It was one of the many parts of the man’s death that he would never get past. “I’ve been here ever since.”

Wilbur made a face, blowing out a breath that already smelled of wine. Good. He wanted to be drunk. Maybe that would bring the emotions back. “That’s tough. You don’t appear to be getting on very well.”

A look around the room told him that. The sheets in the bed that was pointedly unmade hadn’t been changed since he arrived, and the shutters to the large windows stayed locked, no matter what time of day it was. Clothes from the ransacked wardrobe lay about, even though he had refused to wear any of them. 

“No, I wouldn’t say I am.” Technoblade admitted. 

“What’s the deal with those?” Wilbur asked, pointing the bottle towards the wall. 

In the place of some painting he had torn down, Technoblade had hung the skulls of the dragons he had only had for two fortnights. 

“Long story. They were my dragons. Not for long, though.” He added unnecessarily. The size of the skulls revealed them to be only moons old at most. 

Something like recognition light up Wilbur’s face. “Oh, I know you.” He said. 

“Yeah?” Technoblade was wary again. 

“They’re calling you the Blood God, now. You’re more myth than legend, across the sea. I thought it was just a story they had made up, along with the emergence of a dragon rider.” 

The Blood God. Technoblade tried and failed to not like the sound of that. It lit a vengeful spark in his chest, knowing that they were afraid of him. Good. 

“That’s me. The dragon I rode is long gone, though.” 

Wilbur leaned in, speaking in a drawl. “Say, can you really manipulate blood?” 

He grimaced. “No, I froze their blood. Like, with ice.” It felt stupid to say out loud.

“Wow.” The other man seemed a bit too nonchalant about it for comfort. “Is that a guitar back there?” 

Technoblade turned to look, spotting the guitar he thought was purely decorational. “Maybe? Do you play?” 

Wilbur was already moving, grabbing it. “Yes, a bit. I know a song or two.” 

What was at least six songs and a drunken rendition of a popular tavern song that Technoblade joined in on, Wilbur finally put the guitar down. 

“So, why didn’t you kill him?” He asked, taking the new wine bottle that Technoblade had procured. “Techno- can I call you that? Yeah, Techno, why didn’t you hunt him down?” 

Techno was too drunk to correct him. “Who?” He all but slurred. 

“King of Maeren. He killed Philza, or sent people to do it, and you have the dragon-” 

“Had.” Technoblade corrected. 

“Had the dragon, you clearly have the power,” He gestured lazily to the locked shutters hiding them from the tempest outside. “So why not go to war with him? The people down in the remains of that village talk of you like you really are a god.” 

“What would I do afterwards?” Technoblade asked, more rhetorical than anything. “All of Maeren’s allies would go to war with me. A village in the Antarctic isn’t enough military power to conquer a continent.” 

“Unite the twelve villages. You have the castle, make yourself a king.” Wilbur offered, taking another long drink. 

“I’m not a king.” Technoblade said definitively. 

You’re a king, the stuff of myths and legends. The winter protested immediately. The room around him spun. 

“But you could be. There’s a girl they chased into the woods, they say she’s blessed by a god. Well, some say that. Others say she controls nature through the gift of a demon, claiming she’s a wraith.” 

Technoblade raised an eyebrow, taking the bottle back. “What does that have to do with me?”

“If we can figure out how to get your dragon back and rally the villages, you have your armies. If you can recruit this girl, you have your generals.” 

“Generals?” Technoblade laughed. “Who’s the other one?” 

Wilbur gave him a devilish smile. “Me.” 

“You? What do you do?” He asked. 

“You’d call me a conduit. My blood powers other abilities.” 

Technoblade whistled, low and long. “That’s quite the power. People haven’t tried to kill you for it?” 

That got a real laugh out of the man, even drunk. “Too many times to count. Where Philza and I came from, it was a safe haven of sorts. Of course, not even I can counter stormsteel.”

“Stormsteel?”

“It blocks power, making the body unable to release it. It can actually only be found in really cold places. I’d imagine the Antarctic has a lot.” 

He let himself consider the thought, really consider it, even for a moment. 

The continent across the sea, laid out in front of his feet. Maybe the world should learn some fear. 

“Say we did all those things, what guarantees an empire even further away doesn’t hear about us and squashes us to prevent us from becoming a threat?” 

“That’s why you have to be ruthless, Blood God. Show them what you’re made of early on, and they won’t challenge you.” 

Ruthless. Technoblade could do ruthless. 

Wilbur paused, rummaging around in the small backpack he had carried with him into the room. “I almost forgot, there was one more thing I was supposed to give you.”

He pulled out another package, this one shoddily wrapped. 

Technoblade tore into it eagerly. 

A cape, the color of storms, with a chain connecting the sides. It matched the sword and the crown. 

Technoblade jolted upright as a roar sounded. 

He pushed past Wilbur, rapidly unlocking the window shutters and throwing them open. 

Perched atop the highest spire of the Keep, the dragon that had abandoned him sat, roaring it’s fury into the world. 

A king, The winter whispered. So vicious and cunning they will be forced to kneel.


	3. The Storm

Technoblade slashed the patch of vines out of the way, keeping pace with the woman ahead of him. 

She had led them on this chase for a day and a half, and he wasn’t going to lose her now. The branches whipped at his face as he quickened his pace through the underbrush, trampling leaves and bushes and twigs underfoot. 

It wasn’t a quiet chase. 

Up in front of them, a mountain stood. Technoblade would be lying if he said they weren’t herding her towards it. 

To the woman’s left, Wilbur was hot in pursuit. 

Just a little further… and she was hemmed in. 

She turned, a wild look in her eyes. “If you want to kill me, you’re going to have to do it with your own two hands.” She spat. 

Whatever her power with nature was diluted his own, making the storm overhead seem tame in comparison to the rest of his life. 

Wilbur put his hands in the air to show that they came in peace. The man in the beanie was the only thing keeping Technoblade away from the ledge, lately. 

“We just want to talk.” He said slowly, calmly. 

Her eyes still shone with distrust. She took another step backwards, and hit the sheer face of the mountain. “Who are you?”

“I’m Wilbur Soot, and this is Technoblade.” 

Recognition crossed her face, quickly overshadowed by anger once again. “I don’t- I don’t want to fight in your war. I don’t want to be a soldier.”

Technoblade stepped out of the forest a bit more, so the shadows no longer obscured his face. “We won’t ask you to fight, not right away. We want to offer you a home.”

He watched her face soften. “But I will have to fight eventually. You have no reason to let me in otherwise.”

“We have plenty of reasons.” Wilbur cut in. 

“Name one.” 

Wilbur grinned. “We’re collecting broken things. The nobodies, the nothings, the forgottens and unwanteds. We’re going to raise the greatest army this world has ever seen, and create an empire so vast that no one will be able to ignore us. They’ll immortalize us in songs and stories, tell our tale for generations and generations.” 

Technoblade sometimes forgot what it was like when Wilbur talked. It was magnetic. The way he spoke made people want to believe him, invest in the future that he proposed. He offered up little glimpses of the truth and bits of himself, and wove them into a narrative so compelling that it made people desperate to trust him. 

Technoblade didn’t have that. His only talents were the winter and the lethal violence he wielded. He could live with that, though. 

“You tracked me all the way into these woods just to ask me to join your army?” Her voice was almost hopeful. 

Wilbur took the smallest step forwards. “We need your help, but we can help you too. That power of yours, you don’t see something like that every day.” 

“Even if I did believe you,” The girl said, “I can’t control it very well. It always spirals.” She wrung her hands.

“We can teach you how, you can live with us, and in exchange, one day you’ll fight by our side.” Wilbur tried. 

The girl hesitated. “Do you have your army yet?”

“Not right now. We left to ask you, first.” Technoblade saw the nerves that the words elicited, and wondered if he was being too blunt about it. “Look, at the very least, you won’t live in these woods anymore.”

“And if you really hate it, we can bring you back!” Wilbur offered helpfully. 

“I won’t be responsible for another massacre.” She said, and it sounded like a declaration. 

Technoblade’s hand danced across the pommel of his sword reflexively. “We don’t kill innocents. If you do join us, you’ll be required to take a vow against doing so. Civilians aren’t to be harmed because of our conflicts.”

The girl stepped forwards, so slowly. “I’m Nihachu.” She said, but the uncertainty made it sound more like a question. 

“Welcome to the Antarctic Empire, Nihachu. I’m sure you’ll find your stay here quite enjoyable.” Wilbur told her, grin returning.   
\-------------------------  
There were no clouds in the sky. The stormsteel piercings that lined his left ear made sure of that, even if they hurt so badly for the first few moons that it felt as though they were killing them. Just like everything else in his life, Technoblade learned to live with it. 

Birds circled overhead, black of feather and cawing like their lives depend on it. 

The snowbird he’d finally named landed atop his tucked arm. Sanguinem. It was Antarctic for blood. He thought it fitting. 

Technoblade didn’t speak, and the people at his back, the representatives of the twelve villages, watched him with proud eyes and feral smiles. Wilbur stood to his left, wanton pride in his expression and Nihachu to his right, with a stormsteel piercing of her own and unabashed glee in her face. 

All twelve of them had bowed, looking at him like some sort of prophet. He didn’t need them to think of him like a god. He just needed them to be willing to fight and die for him. 

Behind him, his dragon waited. Erinys, he decided to name him. Fury. 

He wore a white shirt rolled to his elbows with the cape of storms over it, skulls of his dead dragons capping his shoulders, and when he spoke, the world itself seemed to pause to listen. 

“They have named me Blood God, Winter Personified, Conqueror of Storms, and it all means nothing. Not when you all call me your leader.” 

The awe and reverence still colored his audiences’ expression. The fanaticism was chilling, how they wait with baited breath. He was playing with fire, and he didn’t particularly care. The sword of shadows was fastened securely to his hip, and the crown for war sat against his brow. His hair had grown out again, and he didn’t bother to cut it. 

It was his tribute to the closest thing he had known to a father. 

“You have given me this honor, and I will not squander it. I will lead us forwards, into a new era!” 

Technoblade looked out over the crowds of people who had joined ranks with their army without even being asked to. 

Village to village they had travelled, pleading with the leaders to take up their cause. Take up their cause they had.

“Tomorrow, I will ask more of you than anyone’s asked of you before!” His voice was steady as he called out. 

“Your families were threatened. They came into our territories, trampled our land, desecrated our villages, slaughtered our families!” Technoblade cried out, watching the soldiers rumble their agreement and anger. “And they will pay in blood!” 

“We will lay waste to their castles!” Erinys shook his head, icy breath spewing upwards in agreement. Technoblade sized up the army as he looked over it, the full extent of his empire’s forces. It was beautiful and intimidating. “There will be nothing left of their bloodlines but ash when we are done! We will show them what fury and ruin truly looks like!”

The reference to his claimed motto sent the soldiers into a frenzy, the cheering reaching new heights. They cried out, cheering and knocking their shields together. 

Still, Technoblade continued. “You were selected for this purpose, born for this war! Today, we bring a war to this King’s doorstep. And we will not lose, because our blood will not allow it.” 

Storms swirled in his eyes, winter chasing his words as he spoke them. 

The wildness shone through his words and his expression, the untamable truth of his blood sending the crowd into another wave of frantic knocking of spears. “We are the beginning and the end, and we will forge this world anew!”

Their armies had landed on the shores of Leher, the continent that would soon be his, not even a fortnight ago. 

Even with the stormsteel, Technoblade had brought the endless winter with him. He hoped the king of Maeren liked snow.   
\-------------------------  
His world was fury and blood. The smell of death and despair was heavy on the wind, but he could taste victory. 

The Antarctic Empire had brought more than an army to the continent of Leher. They had brought a storm that swept up the coasts, burning cities to the ground and wiping empires that had stood for centuries from even memory. 

Technoblade stopped spinning his blade, gripped it firmly, and took a man’s head off with a two-handed swing. 

The battlefield was where he thrived, he found. Wilbur and Nihachu had been content with the fighting, but they were more often found in the castles they had taken. 

They ruled the empire. 

Because Technoblade wasn’t a king, after all. 

He was a conqueror. 

The momentum from his swing propelled him to pivot, tossing the sword back to his left hand. Technoblade sliced a man open, turning to lock blades with another. 

The man shoved him off, stance readying to swing again. Technoblade feigned left, twirling just out of reach of the third man, and plunged his blade into the soldiers chest. 

It wasn’t a fight; It was a massacre. 

The bloodied fields and littered corpses, the screaming and crying, the smell of fear and the stench of death, Technoblade found that it made some jagged part of him sing. 

Technoblade pivoted, ducking under a weak sword swing, and took the third soldier’s legs out from underneath him. Technoblade slammed his sword down while the man was still floundering on the ground, and threw his hidden knife directly into another.

It hit the soldier dead in the chest, sending him stumbling backwards. With a swift kick to the ground, Technoblade finished the job. 

They had pushed across Leher, all the way across, chasing the fleeing nobles of many an empire. 

It would all end today. Technoblade had them cornered, at the very edge of the continent. 

A soldier tried to lock blades like the second man did, and Technoblade didn’t even hesitate as he shoved a dagger up into the man’s chest.

It wasn’t even rage that colored his complexion; It was an icy sort of aloofness that was infinitely scarier. Not that anyone had even seen him angry. Emotion wasn’t something that came naturally to him, not anymore. 

Technoblade barely had time to move out of the way as the last man sliced wide, taking off most of his braid. 

Something like anger did flash across his face that time. 

Then he was moving like a storm. Technoblade clashed down wards in a swing that reeked of steel and wrath, and again at the hip, back and forth they traded blows. 

It was impressive, the soldier’s skill, truly. 

It wasn’t enough. 

Technoblade twisted past a blow that should have skewered him, one knee bent in the snow bank the fields were growing to become. 

He popped back up, leg planted in the grass as he lunged forwards, blade going through the man’s neck. 

Across the bloodied field, Technoblade watched Nihachu crash into the left flank of Maeren’s remaining forces, a great wall of water following close behind.

Opposite her, on the right side, his dragon flew. Erinys’ fire lit up the field in a beautiful contrast to Nihachu’s power. 

For this fight, Technoblade wore no stormsteel. All of the pent up power that had been building for moons rushed out into the world around him, the air alive with it.

Electric currents sang, all around him. The winter followed him, he commanded it. 

Technoblade whirled, air around him shimmering, and took off an approaching soldier’s head. He kept moving, turning his torso left to avoid a spear, and gutted another one from head to toe.

Bathed in blood and eyes alight, he was the wrathful god of the new world. 

The snow fell all around him, white color corrupted red by rivers of blood. His sword of shadows cut through men like they were butter, and he wielded it like the air parted for him. 

There was always an itch he couldn’t quite scratch, a needling at the back of his skull, a whisper that demanded violence. 

He was born of storm and shadow. What was he meant for, if not war?

And hours later, when the sun finally set and Technoblade ripped the king’s head from his neck, the field was alive with the sound of his armies’ cheering.   
\-------------------------  
Many ambassadors loved to tell him that a power like his came around once in a century, but that wasn’t true.

Power like Technoblade’s came around once in a millennia. 

Maybe, when he died in another half a millenia, another world power would arise and claim the empire he had ruled for centuries. 

He would have to be dead for that to happen, though. 

“Pass the salt?” Niki asked. 

Wilbur handed her the salt, cutting into his shitty chicken. Even all these years later, they still ate at the tiny tavern in the rebuilt town that Philza had found him in. “My guitar is back from the craftsman. He fixed it up nicely.”

“Oh, great. More singing, I’m sure that’s exactly what our guests want.” Technoblade commented. 

In return, the other man scoffed. “As if any of them can hear me. Their rooms are a wing away, Techno.”

Technoblade raised his eyebrows, but didn’t pursue the conversation. 

Wilbur turned to a new topic. “I heard that there’s a rebel king rising with the power to combat you.”

“Hm, really?” Technoblade asked. “Anyone important?”

Niki laughed at the question. “Is it ever?”

Wilbur waved him off. “He’s a continent and a half away from Leher, let alone us. They say he doesn’t show his face.”

“Dramatic.” He interjected, taking another bite. The aroma of it was drowned out by the stink of unwashed bodies and burning logs. 

“They call his allies the Angel of Death and the Firesinger.” Wilbur added, finishing off his drink. 

“Why don’t we get cool names?” Niki asked, unable to even take her own question seriously. 

Technoblade shook his head affectionately. “It’s been centuries since we’ve been on a battlefield. No one remembers them.”

“They certainly remember your’s, Blood God.” He said, readjusting his beanie. 

“Maybe we should go back to war.” Niki mused. “Remind people why our slogan is fury and ruin.” 

“Yeah, I’m sure the rebel king would love that.” Technoblade remarked dryly, sending the other two into a laughing fit. 

They hadn’t been on a battlefield in close to a century. Technoblade tried his best to stay out of the wars of mortals. What was a battle of ants to a human? He didn’t have time for the squabbles of them, over and done before he could blinked. 

Wilbur stood, pushing back his chair. “I’m going to head back to the Keep, I have a meeting with the head financial advisor.”

Niki followed him, smiling apologetically at their third member. “One of the chefs promised they would teach me how to make this special cake.”

“That’s fine, I’ll follow you guys back soon. I’m just finishing up here.” Technoblade told them. 

He watched them wander out of the tavern, bundling back up. Reflexively, his hand shot up to trace the stormsteel piercings in his ear. 

Now that he wore them, the winter was softened. Of course, it was the south pole, it was naturally cold, but Technoblade’s rageful clouds had dissipated. 

He stuffed his last bite in his mouth, thinking. 

Whenever he came back to the tavern, he remembered Philza and Pete. 

There was no bringing back Pete. The man was gone forever. 

Philza was probably alive, somewhere out in the world by now, reborne. 

Technoblade didn’t know if he wanted to find him. 

He had a feeling that the man would be disappointed with what he had done, angry with the new family he had found. Philza might have known Wilbur, but he didn’t know Nihachu. How would he feel about her? 

How would Philza feel about the empire he ruled, how he held the known world in the palm of his hand?

Technoblade tossed a few coins down on the table, and strode out the door. The large room had grown suffocating. 

As soon as he was out the door, his snowbird found its way back to him. While Erinys had remain out of the town, Sanguine was free to roam wherever she wanted to. 

The snowflakes that fell that day were softer, gentler. Their decent was more of a float than a fall. 

He tilted his head back, arm reaching from underneath his cape to catch one in his palm. His snowbird snuggled closer. It was serene. 

“Ay, bitch!” A high-pitched voice shouted at him. “There’s a kid on the side of the road!” 

He was shocked into silence. 

And then, for the first time since in long, long time, Technoblade smiled, slow and wide. 

He laughed aloud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> might come back and edit this one i don't know how i feel about it :/

**Author's Note:**

> i have the chapters for this all written out because i tend to quit things i start and i wanted to actually finish something so i just need decide to post them
> 
> also i haven't decided if i want to aggressively overshare or give away nothing about myself


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